


Sleeping Charm

by waterandsilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, aftermath of abuse/trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 22:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15082745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterandsilver/pseuds/waterandsilver
Summary: Returning to Hogwarts after the war, Harry discovers that Draco is plagued with nightmares of Voldemort. He proposes a creative solution.





	Sleeping Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a "get to know the members" event for [drarryonline](https://drarryonline.tumblr.com) on tumblr. I decided to be very self-indulgent and write three of my favourite tropes (eighth year, hurt/comfort, and bed sharing) into one fic. Please come and join the network, we're very friendly and we talk about drarry a lot :))

When the school year starts up again after the war, it takes exactly two weeks for Harry Potter to start stalking Draco Malfoy.

In his defence, who can blame Harry for taking notice when he starts acting oddly? Suspicious behaviour from Malfoy  _has_  tended to be a precursor of Very Bad Things, in the past.

Still, Harry doesn’t really pay much attention to Malfoy in the first couple of weeks of term. He hears about his reduced Azkaban sentence; he hears that he’s been allowed back into Hogwarts on parole. But Harry is too busy to give much thought to it. Sometimes it feels almost scarily like any other year at Hogwarts. The routine of walking between classes; the familiar scratch of quills on parchment. Sometimes it’s almost possible to forget everything that has happened.

But then Harry sees a haunted look in the eyes of a fellow student, or rounds a corner to see a half-demolished wall that hasn’t been repaired yet, or catches a glimpse of a ghost – one of the new ones, one of the  _young_  ones - vanishing into a classroom, and everything comes flooding back.

Maybe he doesn’t notice Malfoy because he, too, seems to have changed. He doesn’t swagger around the castle making his presence known so much anymore.

No, Harry doesn’t have any reason to notice Malfoy, this year.

Not until he starts to act strangely.

It’s a Saturday, and Harry is sitting at the window seat in Gryffindor Tower working on his Charms essay (determined to actually do his assignments before they’re due this year) when a familiar flash of white-blond hair catches his eye from the grounds.

Harry sits up straighter.

Why would Draco Malfoy be walking alone at dusk?

His eyes follow Malfoy as he as he makes his way to the edge of the Quidditch pitch, then raises his wand. A minute passes, then two. Then a broom comes soaring through the air towards him. Malfoy swings himself onto it, and in a flash of white, rises into the sky.

Harry stares.

He waits until the sun is long set and his essay is long finished before finally heading to bed. But Malfoy’s silhouette is still dipping and soaring on the horizon, circling the pitch aimlessly, well into the night.

.

.

At first, Harry doesn’t tell anyone that he’s watching Malfoy again. He remembers sixth year all too well. Hermione’s rolling eyes. Lupin’s scepticism.

No: at first, the only person he tells is McGonagall.

It’s not as if he can be accused of unreasonable paranoia this time. Malfoy is, indisputably, up to something. Harry only goes to McGonagall after he spots Draco doing the same thing not once, not twice, but five whole times. Every night, Harry takes to the window seat in Gryffindor Tower, waiting, and almost every night, Draco crosses the grounds, summons his broom, and flies away. He misses Monday night, and Thursday. What makes it even stranger is that he doesn’t really seem to be _doing_ anything that Harry can see, nothing but flying around the pitch.

McGonagall’s reaction, when he visits her office, only makes him more curious.

“I’m aware of Mr Malfoy’s situation. Stop prying, Potter.”

_Situation?_

Harry wants to ask, but restrains himself. It won’t do any good. McGonagall’s tone is closed. And if there’s one thing he’s learnt at Hogwarts, it’s that if he wants answers, he has to get them himself.

And so, after that, he starts paying proper attention to Malfoy.

Harry finds himself frowning when he gets his first proper look at Malfoy since eighth year began, a couple of days later, in Potions. Maybe it’s the poor lighting of the dungeon, but Malfoy... doesn’t look good. His trademark smirk is gone. He doesn’t seem to have anyone to share it with anymore; he stays at arm’s length from the rest of the Slytherins, the few who’ve returned, and they don’t make any effort to interact with him.

He must feel Harry looking, however, because he looks up. Their eyes meet for a long moment, in which Harry struggles to read them.

 _Tired,_ is the only word that really comes to mind. There are dark circles the size of Saturn’s rings underneath Draco’s eyes.

“Watch your daisy roots, Harry!” Hermione cries, and barely stops him from pouring the entire batch into his cauldron.

Harry’s mind, however, is very far from the Shrinking Potion. Because Draco Malfoy looks so incredibly tired, and Harry is more curious than ever.

.

.

Harry realises a few things, after that. If Draco is heading out on his mystery excursions almost every night, he isn’t sleeping, which is probably why he looks so exhausted.

“Why is he doing it to himself?” he wonders, when he eventually tells Ron and Hermione. It wasn’t long before it came out; he can’t keep secrets from them for long.

Hermione looks unimpressed when he tells her that he thinks Malfoy is up to something yet again, but even she looks intrigued when Harry tells her the pattern of behaviour.

“Maybe he’s searching for something,” she suggests.

“Or someone,” says Ron, more darkly. “Last time he went wandering around the castle, he was meeting Death Eaters.”

But Hermione is shaking her head. “He can’t be. Not if you say McGonagall knows what’s going on. She knows how to run her school. Besides… Voldemort is gone, isn’t he? All that… it’s all supposed to be over.”

She’s right. The days of plotting and scheming and secrecy are supposed to be in the past.

Maybe it’s for that reason that Harry decides to go for a direct approach.

In his head, Harry plans on waiting until a moment when he and Draco are alone. But that isn’t quite what happens. The very next morning at breakfast, Harry looks up to find himself face-to-face with Malfoy, leaving the Great Hall as Harry is entering. Last night was a Quidditch pitch night, and he looks, if possible, even worse than yesterday. Malfoy has always been pale, but he's practically grey.

It comes blurting out before Harry can stop it.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Malfoy stops in his tracks. He looks up abruptly, surprise colouring his face.

“What?”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Harry finds that his mouth is dry. It feels  _strange_ , being face-to-face with Malfoy like this, without any open hostility between them. He's used to Malfoy snapping and snarking, but caught off guard, he isn't, and Harry doesn't know what to do with himself. “Why do you keep going down to the Quidditch Pitch at night?" he continues, because apparently he's committed to this now, and Harry has never been one for half-measures. "What are you doing down there?”

Malfoy balks. He looks  _affronted_. Astonished, perhaps, that Harry has the nerve to just ask outright.

It doesn’t really feel right for Harry either. Usually, it takes at least a few months of skulking behind each other’s backs and complaining to anyone who will listen, before they confront each other.

Then, Harry sees a wall come down over Malfoy’s eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter.”

He moves to leave, but Harry blocks his way.

“Really? So if I went for an evening fly tonight, I wouldn’t find you on the pitch until the sun came up?”

Malfoy’s jaw clenches. “It’s none of your business what I’m doing, Potter.”

“Even if you’re breaking your parole?”

Malfoy’s eyes flash dangerously. “I am doing  _nothing_  to break my parole.” His eyes darken. “Not currently, anyway. If you don’t get out of my way, I might end up doing something that that changes that.”

And then he shoves past Harry so hard that he almost knocks him to the floor.

“It’s only a matter of time,” says Hermione, when Harry finds her and Ron at the Gryffindor table.

“Huh?” says Harry.

“Of course he’s going to be touchy,” says Hermione. “Do you know what sleep deprivation does to a person?” She shakes her head. “It’s only a matter of time before something worse happens. If he carries on like this, he’s going to do himself serious damage.”

.

.

Two days after her prediction, Malfoy passes out in Charms.

“Please fetch the dung-beetles from the top shelf for our demonstration, Mr Malfoy,” says Flitwick, half way through the class.

Malfoy rises, chair scraping against the stone.

And then he simply crumples to the floor.

Harry is the only one who reacts. The  _thwack_  of Malfoy’s unconscious body hitting the stone echoes awfully loud in the classroom. Every eye in the room turns to stare at Malfoy’s suddenly-unmoving form, sprawled across the stone, but only Harry is out of his seat in an instant, springing to Malfoy’s side. His heart lurches painfully at the way Malfoy's head lolls when Harry rolls him onto his back.

“He needs the Hospital Wing,” he says urgently, when it becomes clear that Malfoy isn’t waking up.

“Yes, yes,” nods Flitwick. “You can take him, Potter.”

Harry is tense with anxiety as he manoeuvres Malfoy there. He doesn’t think he’s ever concentrated on maintaining a Levitation Charm so hard in his life, not even in his OWL exam.

Madame Pomfrey doesn’t look surprised when she sees who it is. She ushers them to a bed, and Harry finally, carefully, lowers his wand. Malfoy doesn’t stir when Harry drops him onto the sheets, or even when Pomfrey briskly checks his vitals.

“He hasn’t been sleeping,” says Harry.

Pomfrey doesn’t bat an eyelid. “I’m aware.”

“What do you mean, you’re aware? He hasn’t been sleeping, he’s  _hurting_  himself—”

“I didn’t know you were so interested in Mr Malfoy’s welfare.”

Harry folds his arms stubbornly across his chest.

“I’m staying until he wakes up.”

“Potter, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“I’m staying,” Harry repeats firmly. “I don’t care what’s going on with him. I’m not leaving until I know he’s alright.”

“And what gives you the right to decide to involve yourself in Mr Malfoy’s issues?”

“How about the fact that no-one else seems to care that he’s killing himself!”

Pomfrey gives him a very flat look. “Mr Malfoy is not killing himself. He’s sleep deprived, yes. But he is not on death’s door.”

“He just passed out from standing up,” says Harry, through gritted teeth. “You’re the school nurse. How can you let him do that?”

“I have hundreds of students to attend! I cannot be expected to keep tabs on one boy, especially one like him!”

“What is  _that_  supposed to mean?”

Pomfrey shuts her mouth quickly. But the words have been said, and Harry knows what they mean.

“You can’t refuse to help him just because he made some mistakes in the past.”

If Harry of all people can understand that, why can’t anyone else?

“I have other students to see,” says Pomfrey, but she hesitates before moving away from the bed, turning on Harry with serious eyes. “Believe me, Potter. He will not want you to stay.”

.

.

A few hours later, Harry finally understands what she means.

For a while, Malfoy sleeps quietly, his chest rising and falling softly. It’s… strange, seeing him like this, his eyes closed, his sneer gone, his face open and vulnerable and softer than Harry imagined it ever could be. He’s still so pale, even against the crisp white bedsheets, but when, after several hours, nothing drastic has happened, Harry is still beginning to wonder what all of Pomfrey’s fuss was about.

And then, the sounds begin. They’re only quiet, at first. Harry glances up when he hears a faint groan slip past Malfoy's lips. His face, which has been blank for so long, is pulled taut.

Then the noise turns into a whimper, louder and distinct. Harry sees Malfoy's eyes moving rapidly behind his eyelids. His fingers curl slightly, digging into the bedsheets.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, a blood-curdling scream tears from his throat, so high and loud that Harry jerks back. The sound pierces the air, and suddenly Malfoy is  _thrashing_  on the bed, shrieking like somebody is using the Cruciatus on him.

Harry jumps to his feet, ready to run for Pomfrey, when Malfoy's eyes shoot open. They’re wild, pupils blown. For a moment, he stares at something above the bed, panting for breath like he’s run a mile. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead. His eyes dart over to Harry, and for a moment, he looks straight through him. Harry sees the moment when come back to reality; his eyes blink, and refocus on Harry’s face, and his breath hitches in realisation.

“Potter.”

Fuck. His voice is actually hoarse.

“Malfoy.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He wants very much for the floor to swallow him up right now.

He should have fucking listened to Pomfrey.

“What's going on? What are you doing here?”

Malfoy pushes himself upright, too stubborn to stay lying down, even though Harry can see that his arms are shaky.

“I…” Harry’s head is spinning. “You’re having nightmares.”

Something vulnerable – pain? Humiliation? – flashes across Draco’s face. But anger quickly rises in its place.

“Do you consider  _pointing out the utterly fucking obvious_  to be a full-time job, Potter? Or just a hobby?”

Harry winces. He guesses he deserved that one.

He can see the pain beneath the sharp words. Malfoy is hurting. Whatever that nightmare was, it must have been pretty terrifying. He looks even more ill than before, something Harry didn’t think was possible.

“You’re in the Hospital Wing because you collapsed,” Harry explains. “You fainted in Charms.”

“I fainted in Charms?”

“Yeah. That’s a thing that can happen, when you stay awake for days without sleeping.”

“We’ve already had this conversation, Potter—”

“There’s no point lying, Malfoy. I know, okay?”

Draco says nothing, but Harry sees his shoulders sag slightly, giving him away. Harry has worked it out. Malfoy isn’t sleeping, because he’s been having nightmares. Nightmares bad enough to force himself to stay awake for dangerously long periods of time.

“Why don’t you just ask Pomfrey to give you Dreamless Sleep potions?”

Harry isn’t a stranger to night terrors. Fifth year was particularly awful, and since the war ended, sleeping potions are some of the most trade-worthy items in the Gryffindor dorms.

“Do you think I didn’t think of that?” Malfoy snaps. “Do you think I’m completely idiotic, Potter? She can only give me two per week apparently. It’s not ‘safe’ or whatever.”

He throws himself down dramatically onto the bed.

“Congratulations. You’ve solved your little mystery. Potter does it again. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

Harry really should. He’s already seen more than he should have. He should have listened to Pomfrey; he should have respected Malfoy's privacy.

But he can’t just leave. Not when Malfoy looks so  _pained_.

“Have you… have you tried talking to anyone about it?”

Malfoy gives him a look sharp enough to cut him into slices.

“The last think I want to do on  _this entire earth_ , Potter, is talk about it. Now are you going to leave me alone, or do I have to call for Pomfrey to Stun you and drag you out of the ward? I would do it myself, but that would be breaking parole, you see, and I know you wouldn’t want that, because for some reason, you’ve decided to involve yourself in my business even though you have  _absolutely no fucking right to_.”

Harry knows when he’s lost a battle.

At the door, however, he can’t help but glance back, and his chest aches harder than ever to see Draco lying on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling like he wants it to fall down and crush him.

.

.

Harry spends a lot of time thinking about Malfoy, over the next few days.

Malfoy, on the other hand, seems to be avoiding him.

They’ve both missed their afternoon classes (so much for keeping on top of schoolwork this year) but Malfoy doesn’t turn up to Potions the next day either. In fact, Harry  _knows_  that Malfoy is avoiding him, because he’s missed the class that they have together, but Harry catches sight of his blond head ducking into the greenhouses for Herbology, which they don’t share.

It’s not until Transfiguration on Thursday that Harry finds himself in the same room as Malfoy again, and he’s not wasting the opportunity.

A murmur ripples through the room when Harry walks straight past Ron and Hermione and plonks his bag down at Malfoy's desk.

“What are you  _doing_?” Malfoy hisses, leaning away from him like he has the plague.

“Sitting,” says Harry, as he does just that. “Sorry, is this seat taken?”

He knows damn well that it isn’t. Nobody has sat next to Malfoy, in any class, since the beginning of eighth year.

“Potter, I swear to Merlin—”

“Shh,” says Harry. “The class is starting.”

McGonagall’s gaze lingers on the two of them sharing a desk for a long moment, before she clears her throat and begins lecturing.

The Malfoy that Harry  _used_  to know would never have stood for this. He would have interrupted the lesson. Demanded that Harry be moved. Complained until the entire class was sick of him. Now, however, he does nothing but press his lips together tightly, and face McGonagall, turning a very cold shoulder on Harry. He doesn’t say a word until the lecture is over, and they’re left to practice the spell.

“Move,” he says immediately.

“No.”

“I don’t want you here, Potter.” Then, Malfoy lets out a resigned sigh. “If you’re not going to leave, at least make yourself useful and Summon some snails.”

That when Harry  _knows_  that he doesn’t mean it. Malfoy would never concede so quickly, if he really wanted Harry gone.

Harry flashes back to the sight of Malfoy the Hospital Wing, and it strikes him just how alone Malfoy probably is. His parents are in Azkaban. The Slytherins seemed to have turned their backs on him, probably because the reputation he has from the skull on his forearm won’t help their efforts to reform their House’s image. The staff have given up on him.

Whatever bad blood has been between them in the past, Harry can’t leave him alone when he’s struggling with something like this.

He Summons two snails silently, passes one to Malfoy, and begins to practice on his own.

A few minutes in, Malfoy makes a frustrated noise, shaking his wand.

“Wretched thing,” he scowls. “I never had a problem casting a Lapifors Spell with my own wand.”

Harry glances down at it. He spent a long time using Malfoy's wand, and he can see the difference. This one is chunky, awkward, Ministry-issued, while Draco’s was slender and precise.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I would have given yours back to you, if they’d let me.”

“Merlin, you actually mean that, don’t you?” Malfoy shakes his head. “Ugh. You’re so sincere, Potter. You’re such a Gryffindor it’s actually painful at times.”

Harry sees his opening.

“You know, Malfoy, we’re not as different as you might think. I know what it’s like to have Voldemort in my head, for one thing.”

Malfoy jerks like Harry has electrocuted him.

“Shut the fuck up, Potter.”

“Will you please just let me in, Draco? I might be able to help.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I never wanted to hear someone scream like that again,” Harry says quietly.

Malfoy stills. He’s silent for so long that Harry has stopped expecting a reply, and then,

“Me neither.”

His voice is barely above a whisper.

Harry glances around the classroom. McGonagall is instructing Parvati on the other side of the room. Nobody is within earshot, and nobody is paying any attention to them.

"I'm not saying you have to tell me anything," says Harry. "But I might be able to help. You know you're not going to improve anything by isolating yourself, right?"

Malfoy doesn't reply. He repeats the motion of the spell, even though it’s doing nothing. His snail is steadily making its way to the edge of the desk.

"And I'll fuck off whenever you want me to," Harry adds. "I swear."

Malfoy glances at him. Is that hope, that Harry sees in his eyes?

"Whatever, Potter."

He does a good job of sounding disinterested. But when, after the class finishes, Harry suggests in a low voice that they go somewhere and talk, Malfoy only hesitates for a moment before giving a sharp nod, and following him out of the classroom. Harry steadily ignores the looks and whispers that follow them as they walk side-by-side through the castle.

He isn’t sure where they’re going until they head into the grounds, and then, he knows.

When they reach the Quidditch pitch, and sit down in the stands, he thinks he’s beginning to understand why Malfoy chose this place. It’s airy and quiet, but still familiar.

“I can’t fall asleep on a broom,” Draco explains, reading his mind. “I tried studying. Reading. But I kept falling asleep.” He shakes his head. “ _Sleep._  It’s a joke. How am I ever supposed to sleep again, with  _him_  in my head?”

He gazes out across the pitch, but Harry can tell that his eyes are seeing something else.

“I didn’t sleep much, last year. When he was there… at the Manor. We would never know when he was coming. Sometimes he would arrive in the night, unannounced. Sometimes I would be woken by the screams… I didn’t know whose they were. I would think… my mother… my father…” Draco’s eyes slip shut. “We weren’t safe. I know everyone calls me a traitor, a Death Eater, and they’re right. But nobody was safe from him. Nobody. I saw enough Death Eaters’ blood spilled by his wand to know that.”

Harry tries to imagine it. Living with that monster in his home for a whole year. A terrifyingly powerful monster, who could turn on anyone, at any time. He doesn’t think he’d have gotten much rest either.

Harry bites his lip. When he opens his mouth again, the words are more difficult to form, this time.

“He was in my head,” he says, “For a long time. I… I don’t mean like a memory.” Harry swallows. “We had this… this mental connection. Sometimes he would take over my mind. Put images in my head.”

_Sirius. The Ministry, the prophecy._

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. Even two years later, it still hurts.

“I understand,” he says. “Believe me, Draco, I understand.”

“What I don’t understand is how you’re still sane. I don’t understand how you  _do_  it, Potter. How can you find the courage… I can’t even bring myself to sleep and face a  _memory_  of him. You faced him in the flesh… you stood up to him…”

“You would have died,” Harry says flatly. “There was nothing you could have done, Draco. He would have killed you in the blink of an eye. For what it’s worth… I know that you didn’t want to do it.”

He recalls that night in Grimmauld Place, the vision in the bathroom. Voldemort had forced Draco to use Cruciatus on a failed Death Eater. Harry does not mention it. Some things, he knows, are Draco’s memories, Draco’s secrets. Harry will listen if he chooses to reveal them, but they should never have been Harry’s to know.

"I kept hoping you would win," says Draco, whispering like he's still scared that Voldemort will hear, even now. "Sometimes I dreamt that you came to the Manor. That you killed him. I knew it would be you, if it was anyone. But..."

"But?"

Malfoy shakes his head. "I'm a Slytherin, Potter. We're practical. We don't believe in fairytale endings. I thought he would kill you, and then eventually he would kill us all."

Not for the first time, Harry is immensely glad that the Sorting Hat honoured his wishes when he was eleven, and that he didn’t end up in Slytherin.

He doesn't know what to say, so he gazes out across the Quidditch pitch, full of bright memories that feel as if they belong to another lifetime.

.

.

Harry comes up with the idea a few days later. It comes to him in the morning while he’s brushing his teeth, and when he goes down to breakfast, he heads to the Slytherin table, dropping into the seat opposite Draco.

“Why don’t you sleep with me?”

Malfoy chokes on his mouthful of pumpkin juice.

“Not like that!” Harry says quickly, feeling his face turning beetroot-red. “I mean, why don’t you sleep  _beside_  me? If you dream that Voldemort is attacking you... would it help?”

Malfoy is staring at him like he’s gone out of his mind. Harry is pretty sure that his face is only getting redder.

“I mean, you said it yourself. I killed him. I killed Voldemort. I was the only one who could. So maybe we can, uhh, convince your brain that you’re safe, if you’re with me?”

It definitely sounded a lot smarter in his head.

“Sleep with you?” Malfoy echoes.

“ _Beside_  me,” Harry corrects, face still burning.

“Are you insane, Potter?”

“No. Why?”

“Have you forgotten about  _this_?” Malfoy yanks at his sleeve. He doesn’t pull it all the way up, just enough to reveal the curling tail of the snake, awful as ever against his skin.

“No,” says Harry. “I haven’t.”

But he’s known Draco for years, followed him for years, watched him for years. He understands how Draco works; he knows his motivations. He saw Draco cry in a bathroom, two years ago, at the thought of being forced to kill someone; he saw Draco hesitate, torn, in the Manor last year, not wanting to give Harry away. Somewhere along the way, even though they were never really friends, he’s come to know Draco. And he knows that Draco has never really wanted him dead. Draco is not really that kind of person.

“I know you always need to save people, Potter. But there are better people who you could be saving than me.”

“I’m not saving you,” says Harry. “I’m  _helping_  you. If you let me. And I think I can decide for myself who is and who isn’t worth helping.”

Harry thinks he sees something clear in Draco’s face, but it passes before he can read into it.

“We sleep in different dorms.”

“I can get you into Gryffindor for a few nights.”

“How?”

Harry shrugs, reaching for a slice of toast. “I’m the Chosen One.”

“You’re insufferable.”

But there’s something playing on Draco’s lips. Something that almost looks like a  _smile_.

And Harry can’t help but think that it looks good on him.

.

.

He thinks about using the Invisibility Cloak, but doesn’t, in the end. It’s his dorm, and he’ll invite in whoever he likes. It’s fairly quiet in the Common Room when they put their plan into action. A group of fourth-years gape when Draco follows Harry through the portrait, and Dean raises his eyebrows as they head to the stairs. But Harry has survived a lot worse than a few looks of disapproval.

“What do you think?” he asks Draco, plopping down onto his bed.

Draco peers at the fixtures.

“Too much red.”

“I think it beats being underneath the lake. How do you deal with the damp?”

“This is a magic school, Potter. How do  _you_  know what the Slytherin common room looks like?”

“I’ll tell you one day.”

Draco gives him a sidelong look. “Well, it can’t be one of the girls from our year that snuck you in. They’d have never managed to keep that from me.”

When Harry realises what he’s implying, he feels his face growing hot again.

As Draco sits gingerly on Harry’s bed, the air between them sobers, and all traces of amusement slip from his face.

“I can put up a Silencing Charm,” says Harry. “If it doesn’t work… nobody has to know.”

“I can cast Silencing Charms myself, Potter. That’s not why I haven’t been sleeping.”

Sympathy courses through Harry.

“But thank you.”

Harry starts talking then, talking to fill the silence between them, trying to distract Draco, or perhaps to distract himself from the unexpected butterflies that enter in his stomach at hearing a genuine thanks from Draco Malfoy.

He talks about Ginny potentially being signed for the Holyhead Harpies, if she can prove her skills and lead the Gryffindor team to the Cup this year. He talks about how Hermione wants to go into the Ministry but also thinks it’s a scandal that the Wizarding World doesn’t have any universities and wanting to reform the system. He talks about how Ron is actually doing well in Transfiguration this year, how he’s playing Keeper again, how he’s doing better than Harry and Hermione expected, given what happened.

He’s just talking about summer at Hogwarts, about staying to clear up the aftermath of the Battle, when a flash of silver catches his eye, and his voice dies. Draco has noticed it too.

“It’s one of the new ones,” says Harry.

A pair of ghostly eyes is peering at them. Harry has seen this one lurking in the dorms and in the common room. He can’t have been any older than a fourth-year.

The ghost blinks, then vanishes back into the wall.

“Why are you helping me, Potter?” Draco asks quietly. “You know which side of the war I was on.”

“I don’t like seeing people in pain,” Harry says honestly.

“I deserve it,” Draco whispers. “You don’t know what I did. I deserve the nightmares, I’m just too much of a coward to face them.”

“That’s not true.” Harry shifts. “I did things I regretted in the war as well. There were people I couldn’t save. I acted rashly… people died because of me. If I’d have stopped and thought things through for a second, some people might have still been alive. You’re not the only one who gets nightmares.”

“It’s different. You’re a hero. I should be rotting in Azkaban.”

Harry never thought he’d live to hear Malfoy calling him a hero. Or expressing regret.

“They let you out on parole because they know you don’t belong in there. You didn’t have a choice.”

Draco opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but Harry cuts him off.

“Stop,” he says, “Just  _stop_ , okay? Look, we could do this alll night, and it’s not going to change anything. You made some mistakes, yeah. But that’s done now. The war's over. There’s nothing you can do about it anymore.”

At Draco's doubtful look, Harry lets out a long breath.

“Look," he says. "We survived, didn't we? I know I didn’t win a war to just spend my whole life reliving it. And you’ll have more choices. We both will. You can make the right ones this time.”

Draco is gazing at him with round eyes. “You’re something else, Potter.”

“My name’s Harry, Draco.”

Draco’s tongue darts out, swabs across his lips. “Harry.”

Harry’s tiredness hits him then. He lies back on the bed, and Draco, after a moment’s hesitation, copies him, settling beside him. Harry’s bed is big enough for both of them, but there’s still only inches between them, and Harry is so very aware of the warmth of Draco’s body beside his.

He turns onto his side to face him. Harry has been watching Draco for so long, for what feels like his whole life, but he’s never been so close to him. Draco has the tiniest of freckles on his nose, almost silver against his pale skin, something Harry never could have noticed from afar. His hair looks so soft where it falls across his eyes, eyes that aren’t hard and cruel anymore like they used to be. And his lips look so soft when they aren’t drawn back in a sneer.

Harry realises that he has been staring for far too long, but Draco hasn’t said anything or pulled back. He doesn't look uncomfortable. In fact, he’s staring back at Harry, with something intense, something almost like hunger, in his expression.

Harry doesn’t even think before reaching up. He hears Draco’s breath hitch when he moves so suddenly, and Harry stills. Slowly this time, he reaches up and brushes the hair out of Draco’s eyes. Draco’s gaze doesn’t leave him the whole time. Harry’s heart is beating so fast and so hard he thinks the whole of Gryffindor Tower can probably hear it.

“You know that this probably isn’t going to work,” says Draco.

“I know.”

“This was a stupid idea.”

“I know.”

“We’re both going to regret this a lot, when it goes wrong.”

“I know.”

Draco bites his lip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

.

.

Harry fully expects to be woken by piercing screams and Draco kicking him in the shins.

But that isn’t what happens. It’s strange, at first, trying to sleep while Malfoy is beside him, but the weirdness wears off eventually, and Harry drifts off at some point in the night.

He wakes to the feeling of the sun warming his skin, and when he opens his eyes, he sees it seeping in through the crack in the curtains of his bed.

He doesn’t remember, at first. He registers skin on his own, a weight on his arm, the rise and fall of a chest that isn’t his own, and frowns in sleep-hazy confusion.

Then he glances across, and sees Draco Malfoy, and remembers.

Harry lets out a soft breath. Draco is sleeping peacefully in the sunlight, his eyes shut and his face calm. Harry does his best to lie back down without disturbing him. He’s going to have the worst pins and needles in history in his arm, but it’s worth it. There’s no way in hell that Harry is waking him.

Draco’s arm is curled across Harry’s chest, holding onto him, and a smile tugs at Harry's lips. It looks like they’ve found Draco’s sleeping charm.


End file.
